One Last Toast
by Parsat
Summary: Seventy-five years cannot stop the fulfillment of a promise made between comrades of war. The question is, who will fulfill it?


**Rest assured everyone, I haven't died. I originally planned to post this on Veteran's Day, but I decided to do a last minute cut and expansion, so I have released it on another war-related holiday. Rest assured, you will find out what it is. This is the longest work I have written, at around 3500 words.**

**One Last Toast**

**November 11, 2004, California**

The year had been hard for twelve-year-old Derek. His life mentor, his father, had passed away half a year ago from that terrible disease, and every moment seemed to ring with that memory of the hospital. It seemed that nothing could dull the pain of that event, which had shaken his world. Perhaps it was because of the lack of a male in the house that Derek found himself wishing for Veteran's Day.

Every Veteran's Day, Derek visited his grandfather, Joey Martin. He was a very kind and warm man, surprising for a man who had seen unimaginable horrors fighting on D-Day and the Battle of the Bulge sixty years ago. Only around him did Derek feel safe and secure again.

On this particular visit, his grandfather was waiting for him on the porch. Derek got out of the car and practically launched himself into the old man's arms.

"Hey, Derek! Glad to see you're happy."

Ruffling his grandson's messy hair, he turned to his daughter. "And how's my Elizabeth?"

She smiled, "Nice to see you're still as feisty as ever."

They went inside his small house. It was cozy, with a fair amount of furniture. Perhaps the first thing one would notice about the house was the number of World War II era firearms mounted on the walls. Derek's grandfather was an avid gun collector, and prided himself on his marksmanship, passing on the gift to his children and grandchildren.

After a fun game of Parcheesi and the ensuing fits of laughter from the game, Derek's grandfather had something on his mind.

"Derek, can I ask a favor of you?"

"What is it, Grandpa?"

The old man smiled at the boy, feeling confident that he would be able to fulfill his request.

"I have to tell you the story behind it first, all right?"

Derek's eyes lit up. His grandfather was the best storyteller in the world.

* * *

**December 29, 1944, Bastogne, The Ardennes**

The air was piercingly cold. Although it was the afternoon, the sun, obscured by the clouds, could not dull the sharpness of the knifing wind. The conifers stood tall and white, resolutely sticking out of the deep snow. The natural silence was unfortunately tainted by the occasional ripping sound of machine-gun fire, the distant boom of artillery, and the faint creaking of tanks chugging along.

Eventually, though, one sound grew in magnitude until it seemed to swell into the landscape. It was the whirr of a motor. The jeep bounded across the snow, tires interrupting what had once been a flat expanse of snow.

"How long you think the Germans will hold out here?"

"I hope not long. This place is cold as hell, but when the Krauts come along it gets way too hot."

This dialogue went between the driver and the passenger sitting next to him. Behind them was a fellow soldier standing on a platform where the back seat would have been, manning the .50 caliber machine gun. Each man wore a tan uniform, with steel helmets. On their shoulders were patches with a bald eagle on it, the insignia of the 101st Airborne Division of the United States.

"Just a bit longer, Joey, and we'll turn back."

"I wouldn't get my hopes up, if I were you, Ender."

"I think I see something," said the gunner.

"What is it?"

They stopped, squinting at the snowy dunes. There was no sign of any human presence.

"Maybe it was just me."

"I don't know, Coen," replied Joey as he started the engine again, "I got that feeling again."

* * *

"Colder than hell here," the German sergeant grunted. The sniper by him nodded in agreement. Hidden in a trench, the two of them were both experienced soldiers. Occasionally they would take a look over the trench for any enemy patrols.

It was the boy, however, who seemed most out of place in the midst of these seasoned veterans. He was probably only sixteen or seventeen, eighteen at the most. The officer felt sorry for him but showed no trace of it. The youth was trembling, both from the freezing cold and from fear. It was all too true that Hitler's empire rode on the backs of children; the new Hitler Youth recruit was one of these peons.

The sergeant looked over the trench through his binoculars, then quickly got down.

"Patrol up ahead."

There was a box next to them filled with three very odd contraptions. They were long, narrow tubes, but with a giant, bulbous warhead at the end. This was the _Panzerfaust_, or "tank fist," its shaped charge capable of piercing up to 8 inches of steel armor and reducing tanks to rubble. The officer grabbed one of these _Panzerfausts_, handing it to the youth. The young man's arms were like jelly, and he almost fell over with the weight of the weapon, even though it was not especially heavy. With some difficulty, he snapped the sight up and waited…waited for the signal to fire.

* * *

Slowly the jeep accelerated. As it started to reach top speed, the machine gun opened fire suddenly.

"Now!"

The tube expelled fire from its rear, sending the shaped charge flying, impacting the ground straight in front of the jeep. The lightweight car hurtled through the air, landing upside down and crushing one of the hapless Americans.

Joey saw the _Panzerfaust_ go off, and the world seemed to move in slow motion. The explosion propelled him out of the car, and rolled in the snow a few times. The adrenaline coursed through his body as he got up, arming his Thompson submachine gun and making a mad rush for the trench. One of the Germans popped his head up, and Martin let loose with a spray of bullets. The German's helmet flew off as his head was filled with lead, and a light red cloud of blood seemed to settle from the impact of the bullet. Joey reached the edge of the trench to see the youth curled up in the fetal position, sobbing. The spent _Panzerfaust_ was thrown to the side. The youth looked up and saw the American pointing the submachine gun at him.

"D-Don't hurt m-me…" the youth stuttered. Joey was frankly amazed that this teen knew English, a language typically known only by their officers. But it still didn't lessen the dilemma that was on his shoulders.

Joey had killed plenty of Germans since landing in France on D-Day, but this was the first time he had the time to think about what he was doing. Why the hell was Hitler sending kids to fight in a war? For the first time, he felt a pang of remorse for the men he had killed in his own defense. Perhaps, just perhaps, if he had spared one man, one boy might not have to go through all this. He lowered his weapon.

"Get up." It pained the American to see the boy pleading for his life. The German youth got up, legs wobbly, still cowering in fear as he stood. Joey looked him in the eyes.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Martin."

"That's the same as my last name." The similarity palpably lightened the atmosphere, making both soldiers seem more human in each other's eyes.

"Martin," said Joey, his voice quavering a little. The name seemed to fade away in the air, rather than simply cutting off. Then he hardened again.

"Do you have a shovel?"

The boy nodded, grabbing some entrenching tools lying in the trench. The American grabbed one and started to dig.

"Come on, Martin, you're going to dig with me."

The boy nodded, knew that it was no use to run away, as he had a mind to before. Instead, he dug along side the American through the ice and into the hard ground. It was hard work, but before long they had dug several pits. They went to each of their fallen comrades, checking for a pulse. After making sure each man was indeed dead, they laid them in the pit, burying them again. Their rifles, however, were stuck into the ground as a marker, and the two Martins laid the helmets of the dead men on the rifle butts.

Standing by, they looked on at the mounds they had made. Death had resolved the men of their past bonds and alliances, they were all equal in God's sight now. Joey made a prayer for the soldiers, that they were in a better place now. Martin was silent, his head bowed in respect. After a while they raised their heads again and walked away, leaving the dead to their peace.

By this time, it was getting late. The sun would set any time soon. Although they had probably covered a few miles towards the American base, it was still miles ahead. Joey looked for a place to camp out for the night. As the sun faded among the trees, he finally spotted a shed on the edge of a clearing. He had heard the stories of how the Germans used buildings as bait for American patrols, but he decided that it would be preferable to be a captive than freeze to death.

The shed looked like it had not been used for some time. Hay and assorted debris littered the floor. The windows were old and dusty, but still standing. Still, it was shelter. They used the wood they found in the shed as firewood, warming up the small room enough to ward off the chill. One of the corners had an amount of old hay enough to make a small bed for one. Joey let the boy take that; he was only a boy after all.

Martin fell asleep with a quickness that Joey envied. The boy had nothing weighing his conscience. The American sat in another corner facing the door, gun in hand. Still, the day had moved so quickly, and the adrenaline had coursed through his body for so long that maybe one nap wouldn't hurt…

* * *

"Get up!"

Another day back at base. But was it just him, or did the voice have a little accent…

_Shit_.

Joey snapped awake only to find that his gun was gone, and that he was staring down the cold barrel of another submachine gun.

"I should kill you for what you've done to me."

"Wha-What did I do?"

"You killed my best friend, you damn Amerikaner!" spat the German.

Joey was silent, looking into the German's eyes.

"I can't kill a prisoner under the Geneva Convention…but the Geneva Convention won't know about this, eh?" He gave Joey a chilling smile, one that made him immediately start to pray silently and hope that it would be quick. Just then the boy seemed to appear out of nowhere.

"Wait!" the boy seemed to say. Joey didn't understand German at all, but it seemed that he might actually have a chance. Finally the older soldier relented.

"Up on your feet!"

Joey scrambled up. They marched outside to a clear morning. The German turned the American to the direction of the American base, then gave him a kick.

"Run as fast as you can. If I see you take but a peek over your shoulder, I will shoot you in the back. Got it? Run!"

Not even Camp Toccoa with its demon-spawn officers could make Joey run as fast as he did that morning.

* * *

**December 31, 1945, South Berlin, Germany**

The beer hall was a tumult of noise and commotion for the new year. The murmur of many voices, the clinking of glasses, and the joy of fraternity filled the place. The war was now a thing of the past; hopefully progress under the Allies would be made. Joey felt a little out of place, although there were several Americans with him. He had decided to stay a little longer to enjoy the sights and sounds of Europe, so here he was in South Berlin, all the way from Auxerre, France.

Drinking some beer, he looked around the moving crowd of people, watching it undulate like the tide. Just as the tide seemed to recede, he saw him.

Was it really him? He could not be entirely sure, that had been a year ago…

"Martin!"

The youth turned his head and saw the man.

"Joey?"

"That's me!"

Like two lost brothers, they embraced, then quickly asked tidings of each other. Martin had managed to lead his group of Hitler Youth to surrender to the Americans, and was deported to South Berlin, occupied by the Americans. He had been living well; he had probably grown several inches since they had last met. The two talked late into the night, drinking beer (alternating between toasting "cheers" and "prost" to one another) and sharing stories of the war and what they wanted to do in the future.

As they were talking, there was a general tumult in the hall, which could only mean that the new year had come. Martin turned around to look at the clock. It was twelve.

"Well, happy new year! It's getting late, and I had better get going."

He was going to get up, but Martin stopped him.

"One last toast."

Martin paused for a second, then sat back down. "Sure."

They refilled their glasses, clinking them together. The background seemed to slow down and melt away into background noise.

"Cheers."

"Prost."

And they drank. They were brothers now.

On their way out, they saw a news photographer. Quickly hailing him down, they paid him some money to take a picture of the two outside the beer hall.

"When are you leaving?" asked Martin.

"I'll be going to France, then back home starting tomorrow."

"That's too bad."

"But don't you worry. I'll be back for one last toast!" shouted Joey to his new friend.

"I will be waiting for it!" replied Martin, as he went his separate way.

Joey left the next day, but not before picking up the developed photo of him and Martin. The war had carried much suffering and anguish for him, but the memories of those dark days faded as he looked at that picture again, for the first time wondering about the future and when that final toast would come.

* * *

**The Present**

"And so we left the best of friends. I never found Martin again, though I returned to Berlin many times."

Joey Martin's eyes grew clear and focused again as he returned to the present. He looked at Derek this time, gray eyes meeting the brown.

"And here I pass it on to you, Derek. I want you to finish the promise I made sixty years ago."

Derek nodded, looking away for a moment. The responsibility seemed so heavy...but a question was in him mind.

"Why does this matter so much to you, grandpa?"

The old man smiled. "Sometimes, Derek, life won't go your way. You're going to have storms in your life, and it'll be hard. You won't be the same again. But appreciate the good times in the dark times, and the friends you've made, and the storm will pass. All storms do."

Derek was starting to get it. "Will I get out of my storm, grandpa?"

Joey looked intently into Derek's eyes again, craning his neck. "You will, you will. I have proof."

He took a picture out of his pocket, placing it on the table in front of Derek. It was very old, and a little worn, but it was all the proof Derek needed to let him know that life would go on.

* * *

**November 14, 2021, Angeles Bay**

Life had moved on. Derek was now a renowned surgeon. His wise grandfather had been long dead, and his promise still lay heavily upon him. Although he had been to Germany several times for medical conferences, he had found no luck still, in Bonn, Berlin, or Frankfurt, tracing down any possible relations.

Still, he had weathered the latest storm. He had come in with himself and a colleague, and came out as a lover with his beloved.

Derek trudged up the stairs and knocked on the door. It was a very clear day outside, strangely devoid of the usual overcast common in the November months, but chilly. Perhaps Angie had this in mind, because the door was very quick to open today.

"Really cold out there," said Derek as he entered, close to shivering.

Angie giggled at him. "Oh, you're just being a Californian again. It's only 60 outside."

Derek scowled a little, then smiled. He was used to Angie's little teases about everything he did now, whether it was his propensity to "move around too much" while playing video games, or his terrible attempts at cooking, most of which involved him desperately trying to invoke his Healing Touch to prevent his apartment from blowing up. He sat down at the counter, where Angie was making some hot chocolate for the two of them.

Derek noticed that Angie had that wistful look about her when something was on her mind.

"What's on your mind?"

"Oh! Uh, when I was a little girl, I used to always visit my granduncle in Bonn on Sundays around this time of year, because it was _Volkstrauertag_, sort of like Memorial Day here. He fought in World War II, and he used to tell his little tomboy princess all about his war stories, even though he was only a youth back then."

Derek's ears pricked up, but he didn't say anything yet.

"I remember the last time I saw him, he asked me to do him a favor. Apparently he made a friend with an American soldier who spared his life, and they promised that they would drink together again. I even have a picture of them together."

And she produced the picture. It was black and white, and slightly grainy and worn, but the smiling faces and the joy of the moment were unmistakable. Derek looked at it in slight amazement, then reached into his pocket for another photo, laying them side by side on the table. They were the exact same.

"What was your granduncle's name?"

"Martin Keller. Who was yours?"

"Joey Martin."

"But that's what he told me to look for!" they exclaimed simultaneously.

Derek started to speak, "He told me that the man he was looking for had the same name as him." Angie nodded in agreement. There was an awkward pause as both parties seemed unsure of what to do next. Then Derek broke the silence.

"You know what to do."

Angie got up and opened her fridge door, taking out two beer bottles. She opened them, putting the caps to the side. Derek took one, grasping the bottle tightly as he looked into her eyes and connected his bottle with hers in a ceremonious clink.

"Cheers, from one world to the next."

"Prost, from one time to the next."

And then they drank, putting two souls to a final rest with an oath fulfilled, seventy-five years of searching ending with a final stroke of luck.

* * *

**Thanks for taking the time to read my little story. Bonus points to whoever can identify the little crossover in this story. **

**Also, for those of you with veterans in your family, I strongly recommend you guys ask them to relate their experiences before it's too late. The best way to honor our veterans is to learn and remember what they've been through.**


End file.
